


Ignorable You

by Hambone



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anger, Body Worship, Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Sticky Sex, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:11:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't even vent his frustrations in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignorable You

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on a million things right now and I needed a creative break so I pushed this out in about an hour while dyeing my hair. Enjoy!

Cliffjumper lay back against the firm wall of his berth frame and exhaled, deep and low. He was stiff, he was frustrated, and he was going to self-stimulate himself into stasis lock if he could. Not bothering to look, he tapped the command to tint the window screens into the light control dock in his wall, other hand moving straight for his interface paneling. No point in being shy about it. He was the only one here. 

On top of everything, he was tired. As juvenile as it sounded, he almost wished he could just skip the work and get to the afterglow, when he’d be warm and relaxed and the knots of data fumbling their way through his processor could properly defragment and settle snugly into his hard drives, stored and ignored. Recharge alone never brought him peace. He found himself caught up, cycle after cycle, in the same vicious loop of paranoia, reactionary anger, and, worst of all, impotent jealousy. 

His panel popped open with a hiss of depressurized air, spike tip just barely nosing between the petals of its secondary cover. His valve was hardly well lubricated, but he decided to start there out of pure laziness, unwilling to exert too much effort into coaxing his spike to alertness. Tracing two fingers around the rim absently, he puffed out another sorry snort, almost a groan. The elastic mesh began to swell pleasurably, interface protocols fully activated, and he moved to swirl all four fingers in quick, efficient rotations around the lips. 

Despite wanting to be as clinical and businesslike about this as possible, he found his mind drifting, as it always did, to his boss. Even the concept made his fingers flick against his exterior node with zest, a fact that only served to make him grumpier even through his charged daze. Longarm Prime was simply impossible to ignore though, and before he could stop himself he was all wrapped up in those thick, ample thighs. 

The image had him setting up a good pace by the time his spike finally got the hint and pressurized fully, popping out from its housing in a surprising, quick burst, droplets of fluid spattering across his abdomen. Awkwardly attempting to keep up his solid rhythm with one hand, he pulled the other up to firmly grasp it, hips jumping slightly at the increase in intensity. 

Even though he was a ways into his routine already, the fantasy always had to begin with simple cataloguing. Longarm’s wide, wide shoulders, hardly tapering at all into a flat, strong chest. This was the first thing Cliffjumper had ever noticed about him, long before he’d realized how insanely hot it made his circuitry, and always where his imaginations began. Naturally things progressed to the waist, curving outward instead of in, round and full. Cliffjumper bet it would take at least an extra arm’s length for him to be able to fully encircle those wide hips, and had to slow himself consciously as the fantasy brought to mind the image of his own face pressed warm and safe against that beautiful belly, the mesh pliable enough to feel the inner mechanisms working inside. 

He squeezed his spike so hard it hurt, realizing suddenly that he was shaking. Opening his optics, he panted hoarsely, a single finger just barely breaching the inside of his valve and teasing it slowly. Watching the way his superior had walked by him and into his office, many a time, he had picked up on the slight tilt of his hips, the way the shelf of his shapely aft rocked side to side within a subtle arc. Longarm most certainly liked it in the valve, with an aft like that. He could easily see the way those calm optics would flicker, the pleasant look on his face that was so peculiar for a bot of his almost militaristic demeanor twisting with pleasure as Cliffjumper circled his servos just like this, pushing in just like that. 

Or perhaps Longarm would be the domineering one, not any less soft and pliant but commanding in the way he was on the job. Maybe he would straddle Cliffjumper’s waist, his solid weight a wonderful confirmation of intimacy. Longarm would bend forward, whispering his subtle brand of praise into Cliffjumper’s audio sensors as his stomach pressed heavily between them, optics lidded and heavy. 

Of course he recognized that look. He had seen it before, or something similar to it. He was unable to stop his thoughts from questing for the memory until it was too late. His hands faltered. 

None of this could really happen, because Longarm didn’t like hard, sandy bots like Cliffjumper. He liked slim little wisps whose tender thighs could perch like a vining rod in his lap. One in particular. Lips curling at the unsavory image, which came unbidden into his helm, Cliffjumper was doused in a cold bath of reality as he recalled the day, several lunar cycles ago, when he had returned to his post after quitting time because he had forgotten to return a file to Longarm’s office (idiotic mistake, but a mistake all the same), found the door unlocked but refusing to open automatically and, without any real thought about it, shimmied it open manually just enough to get an eyeful of the event taking place inside. 

Event was a bit of a strong word, honestly, but it had changed Cliffjumper so thoroughly he could not think of it as anything else. Blurr, that jittery field agent from sector eighty four, was pressing the backs of his legs into Longarm’s desk, arms thrown haphazardly around his boss’s neck as he nuzzled and kissed his face. One of Longarm’s hand had snaked around to his backside, palm covering what was happening between Blurr’s legs, but the slick noises that managed to filter through the air to where Cliffjumper stood, shocked, belayed their purpose. Longarm’s other hand was in front, presumably pursuing the same goal, wrist knocking gently against Blurr’s slender spike, smoothly arcing between his legs. 

Being the slightly taller of the two, Blurr was hunched over his body, mouth hanging open in a wide, wet smile, which Longarm returned, a fondness so true in his optics it wrenched the spark to see. Blurr was muttering enthusiastically, low enough that Cliffjumper could not make out much of it, which he was thankful for, barring a few pleased squeals, which Cliffjumper was also thankful for because they were high and nasal and a reminder that even wiry little bots with their modest breasts and delicate detailing still had their ugliness. 

He was so frustrated by the unwanted intrusion to his personal hours that he began to work himself harder, determined to cum in spite of them, as if Blurr would somehow be slighted by his inability to deny Cliffjumper this one pleasure. It’s not like they had even seen him, Cliffjumper thought, tugging pre-fluid slicked fingers down the ridges of his spike. They were too caught up in each other. Shoving another finger indelicately inside his valve, he bit his lip and snarled. 

Blurr’s thigh had been blocking any view of Longarm’s spike he would have gotten otherwise (just another thing the agent kept him from), but he could imagine it pretty well. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t spent entire work cycles dwelling on the subject, legs crossed and shifting behind his desk, trying to focus on typing as Longarm paced in the main hall, dictating some document or other that needed secretarial confirmation. Thick, just like the rest of him, curving up beneath the swell of his stomach with the same soft grace his frame carried. There were times when Cliffjumper was sure he must be aware of it, intentionally suppressing it to keep from distracting the bots around him with the realization of his inherent sensuality. 

He tried to focus on that now, push Blurr out of his fantasy. Longarm’s fingers, twice the width of Cliffjumper’s own despite them being the same size class, wrapping around his spike and not Blurr’s. He took a little pleasure knowing that Blurr’s was smooth; ridges felt better, no question about it. Where Blurr was lacking, he was blessed, seams and angles all wrapped up into one squat instrument, inferior in length but more than making up for the girth. 

Longarm’s valve would be fat and swollen, the kind of pudgy mess you just wanted to suck on forever. Cliffjumper would do so, with vigor, pressing the flat of his nasal ridge against the underside of that chubby spike as he tongued the exterior node. He could imagine Longarm’s thighs, framing his head with light pressure, quivering pleasurably and he pushed closer and closer between them, dipping his tongue inside to flick the bulging sensory nodes.

His overload surprised him, both in that he hadn’t felt it coming and that, as his calipers contracted and his spike leapt in his hand, his hard drives flashed the image of Longarm with his hand up Blurr’s circuitry again in the midst of it all. His hands stilled completely, fingers trapped inside his own squeezing valve. A wet splash of transfluid spurted out onto his chest, and he recoiled as if he’d been smacked. 

  The afterglow was not what he’d wanted at all. In fact it wasn’t even much of a glow, more of a dim, damp haze. His processor, normally abuzz with paranoia and gossip and garble, was oddly slow now, as if he was looking at his predicament through wax gauze. Rather upset with himself but unsure why, he made his way to the wash rack, no longer tired. He just felt sticky, and uncomfortable, and alone. 

Turning the dial up to full heat, he stepped into the steam and pressed his head to the polished wall of the wash room. There was something so disgusting about self-deprecation, he thought, something that made the victim seem limp and ill to not only themselves but those around them. As someone who generally prided themselves on, nay, were defined by their bravado, it was particularly, shamefully so. Over something as foolish as a crush, too. 

It’s not as though he would have moved in on Longarm had Blurr been absent from the equation. Relations between members of the Guard were strictly prohibited, especially when between agents of differing age and status. Cliffjumper and Longarm were close in terms of make date, or at least he assumed as much, but Blurr was fresh off the assembly line. One couldn’t say he hadn’t seen true action in the field, but the scent of new molding still wafted after him everywhere he went, young and eager compared to the other members of his station, outshined only by Longarm’s spectacular, record breaking rise through the system to become a Prime. 

Perhaps that was why they were drawn to one another. It was grasping at wires, really, because Longarm and Blurr were about as different as two bots could be in terms of everything from maturity level to point of origin, but Cliffjumper couldn’t see reason in it otherwise. He saw himself, short and stumpy, deemed too emotionally volatile to be an active member of service, compared to the virile and decorated career of the younger agent and felt vilified in comparison. He would never have overstepped his boundaries, a secretary and the head of the Intelligence Agency, but those boundaries would have seemed so much smaller under different circumstances. 

He shouldn’t have fallen for a kind smile and a passing “good morning” every once and a while. 

The solvents poured down, cleaning away the temporary impurities and leaving the rest. Cliffjumper had to actively hold himself back from beating his brow against the wall, having been warned several times by the neighbors that his banging about was not going to be tolerated much longer. Surely, somewhere out there, Longarm Prime was recharging, wrapped snugly around someone whose slender curves fit perfectly against his round frame, and Cliffjumper should be happy for him. 

He wasn’t. 


End file.
